


In Your Hour of Need

by sunglassesemoji



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Confessions, Emotional, Happy Ending (eventually), Lotta blood talked about (not gory though), M/M, Possible future chapters?, You ever wanna cry?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 13:52:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13482840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunglassesemoji/pseuds/sunglassesemoji
Summary: When the heart is yearning, the taste of pain dies on McCree's tongue when he stares up at the sight of Hanzo Shimada covered in blood and saying his name.Based on the prompt: It’s time to fight the boss and if I don’t tell you now, I might not live to tell you.





	In Your Hour of Need

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd bc I believe in myself. (Also, because, well, I don't have a beta.)
> 
> Also, wrote this with the song Carnival of Rust playing on loop - I'd rec playing that while reading for ultimate #suffering.

Blood trickles past the scathing wounds that fire flickers over, surface cuts pouring a haze of crimson over the intricacy of blue scales. Hanzo’s pain-riddled mind registers the orange glow akin to the lazy sunrise over Gibraltar’s vast ocean. The same blend of reds bleeding over the bottomless water before it, pouring light onto his skin as the wind whipped at the inky black of his hair. 

The fire finds its place just as excruciatingly hard to bare as the view from his rooftop perch’s immense sense of isolation. Unforgiving months passed with a gourd in hand as Hanzo strained to see past the physical nature.

His throat burns similarly, the strain to speak just as rugged and harsh as it felt trying to push down his hurt with the luxury of rolled cigarettes. Speaking was almost harder when he first ushered away the presence of the nosy cowboy. Experiencing everything alone was easier than bothering, unveiling the awful things that crashed against the waves twice as hard in his chest than they did the rocks below them. 

Hanzo’s dark eyes are perpetuated by an overlay of red, his vision hazy as he watches his own hands trying their best to overcome the shake within his system. Practiced fingers find trouble in finding a grip that can solidify on the always unforgiving familiarity of having his weapon. Every ounce of his body cries out in undeniable pain and make his eyes squeeze shut at the sensation of moving. 

His famed and undisputed sense of duty bring to fruition the overwhelming urge to control something, to pierce one golden edge of Stormbow into cracked and mud caked Earth to survive and move forward. Hanzo is many things, but he’ll never consider doubting in his own ego. McCree just called him cocky. 

Honor is what wracks through Hanzo’s chest and has him dry heaving with a palm flat against rough, rouble-infested pavement. His gaze shifts to his weapon, the movement dizzying and unrelentlessly arduous for such a simple task. The reflection that shines off the metallic surface is devastating at best, heart wrenching at worst. What he’s met with showcases the misery of ruins through specs of dirt: upturned tables and barrels rolling haphazardly on their sides to spread the overarching reach of the wildfire; beams once a structural necessity begin piling down like dominos as time devastatingly ticks on, and a single red serape billowing in the wind with edges licked by unforgiving flames. 

The meat of his palm scrapes against that sharp, unkempt ground beneath him as he wills himself up with gravity. The intensity of the smoke is excruciating at such close proximity and the snap of pain in his elbow edges on overwhelming. The hefty weight of Stormbow promises an inflammation twofold later of the agony already settling into his bones.  
Rough fingertips push the wisp of bangs collected in a wet mass on his forehead. far from where they’re currently stuck to a gnash bio-med packs couldn’t solely heal. The haze around him doesn’t help in the slightest, the scenery before the archer clouded over in a dark fog as coughs sprout from the back of his throat and meet the inside of the aforementioned, pain riddled elbow. 

A serape the color of desert red-dirt acts as a beacon that instigates Hanzo to move, move, move. The mantra nimbly works, pain sensors suffering both mentally and physically as Hanzo’s limps to where the article of clothing serves as a flag. His fingers twist into the fabric numbly, words on the tip of his tongue choked back down his throat. Hanzo traces the geometric shapes while regret paints his insides black. 

“Jesse,” finally came the pant that burned Hanzo’s lungs. His lips parted to smoke without the usual cinnamon charm a cigarillo carried, closing only to purse torn and chapped, pink flesh. He fought for strength in his feet, to urge the metal of his boots to tremble over the earth. 

A cough spluttered somewhere in the havoc of the area nearby. Searching the ruins of outside the warehouse proved difficult as even a sniper’s vision cannot overcome the blood that continued to trail down over his eyelashes mixed with the heavy smog. His messy movements were staggered and slow as he searched for the source over flipped-turned chairs and cemented painted scarlett from sloppy, startled hand prints. 

“Jes,” his voice once again strangled out, knees barely lifting the inches his voice was able to carry. Each effort was painstakingly deliberate as his body desperately attempted to subdue the throb residing deep in his chest. 

His skin felt oddly cold despite the familiar warmth of the serape. 

Chaos billowed with the fog filling the room, a harsh and suffocating presence that clouded both sight and judgement. Hanzo’s fingers slid for better purchase on the grip of his bow, sutterting over the curvature the more when his weight threatened to throw him off-balance. 

“Han,” officially came the lackluster reply from his right. 

Hanzo’s hastened movements were met with a crushing agony in his ribs that made his heart pound nearly as hard as the sight before him. 

“Didn’t mean to get you caught up in all this, Han,” McCree started slowly, his gaze resolute on focusing on Hanzo despite the blearly picture the fire behind provided. Flickers of hot ash danced along the ground, flushing Hanzo in an uncomfortable warmth and burning the welcoming blue of the silk that lines his clothes. 

Before Hanzo lay a nightmare. McCree’s head and right shoulder lay against the remains of a cement wall, right arm propped up on a dry-rotted tire. His sleeve rolled up where it wasn’t already split open, red and white plaid fraying at the edges around rows of grated cuts. The cowboy’s left leg lay with a spur jammed into the scrap alloy of a car door. In his thigh sat a gleaming slice of metal. Hanzo watched as it shook along with the shivers that wracked McCree’s body.

The slow patter of rain began to drumm against the pavement surrounding the two. Hanzo couldn’t breathe as he stood frozen in place, eyes wide and lips parted open as he fed the terror building up inside him. 

“Fancy seein’ you here,” McCree numbly joked. 

Hanzo drops to his knees, hands running over the curvature of Jesse’s jaw. Slow, calculated movements taking inventory of the lacerations and trauma dusting every inch of the man beneath him. Little wonders barely reamined pleasant as the scar over McCree’s bottom lip found itself smeared in fresh blood, the dust of freckles over his cheeks so camouflaged by grime and dirt, and the normal casual mop of brown hair stuck with sweat at McCree’s temples where it framed the pitiful expression crossing his features. 

“You’re an idiot, Jesse.” McCree couldn’t see Hanzo, but he could hear the huffs of breath coming out of Hanzo’s mouth as the archer’s hands wound their way around the gunslinger’s neck. 

McCree fights the urge of wetness behind his eyes escaping, fingers curling unconsciously into a fist as he pressed himself to be a rock for Hanzo. Instead, his mind focused on the resulting pain from his flesh hand’s bruised knuckles. On the opposing, the mechanical tips of his fingers shown titanium blue from strafing too close in his assaults to the crackle of the flames. Dents littered his forearm, scratches and nicks blossoming into the curved complexity of the Skull design just as harshly as they did his sun-kissed skin. 

Hanzo’s eyes seemed to fleet all over McCree, searching every burnt article of clothing and ounce of skin to spot where the traces of splattered blood from other’s started and McCree’s own wounds began. The blood soaking his collar and chest matched the same coverage the Southwest hues on his serape did. 

Quickly, the serape was wrapped around the edges of the metal jutting out of McCree. Hanzo stumbled through the process of dabbing at the irritated surrounding skin. The implication of infection worrisome more than anything as McCree struggled to cry out at each miniscule movement made. 

“Never thought I’d have someone to worry about in a time like this,” McCree tried in between touches. His hands wrapped around Hanzo’s as the archer struggled to gain ground on the spilling blood. “If I were alone, dragged through hell an’ all.” His breathing came in barks, barely able to blow the brown strands of his hair away from his lips. “Shoulda left alone.” The absolute anguish that stemmed from speaking had him seeing white, eyelids closing harshly in an attempt to subdue the agony flooding his lungs. “Jesus,” he groaned, “Shouldn’t have gotten you into this.”

“I would have followed you no matter what,” Hanzo’s stern voice carried over the intensity of the flames like a vice. “I won’t stop following you, no matter how stubborn you are.”

“You callin’ me stubborn?” The joke was met with harsh pain elicited by Hanzo’s quivering fingers unwinding his serape. 

Hanzo was anything but deft as he stumbled through unbuttoning McCree’s flannel, soothing over the delicate skin above his heart. MCree heaved a sigh as his eyes scanned the flavor of misery covering Hanzo.

Next, the soft material slowly dragged upward to the spot where McCree’s chest armor splintered and the bullet did not. Putting pressure down was necessary in wiping away the troublesome spread of blood mixed with shrapnel, but the noises McCree was making would forever burn their way into Hanzo’s dreams. The cowboy’s good knee jerked from under Hanzo’s thigh as the resulting tremor spawned from overexerted muscles and blinding pain. 

“You need to stop talking,” Hanzo warned as he shakily reached over his shoulder to claim one of the few arrows left to his name. He utilized the tip to dig the metal from McCree’s chest, breaking the resulting skin just to start all over again. “There’s no more medical supplies for another three hundred feet until we reach the transport. I won’t let you bleed out before them from fatigue.”

Blood mixed with the unforgiving rain, messily coating both agents. McCree’s metal arm fisted the loose fabric of the serape, his flesh finding purchase on the dragon’s head at his wrist. 

“You don’t have ‘ta stay. Deadlock’s never been your problem,” McCree blindly fought to argue, flesh hand finding its way to cradle Hanzo’s face. His thumb lightly brushed over high cheekbones, not at all shocked as he moved away the tears blocking Hanzo’s vision. 

The archer’s hands slipped from McCree to slide the golden scarf from his hair in a single, practiced movement toward the angry gnash that cut through plaid on McCree’s arm. He worked his hair tie around McCree’s bicep ungracefully, quivering as his third attempt to knot it proved successful. 

“But you are.” The acceptance in Hanzo’s voice was as absolute and deafening as the explosion that followed the last syllable. 

Hanzo instinctively covered the cowboy below him, arms wrapping around the man as he hid his face in McCree’s neck. Smouldering remains of a garage door ricocheted around their hiding spot, scattering razor sharp metal in various sizes across the floor. McCree could see pieces miss the two minimally from over Hanzo’s crimson-stained shoulder. 

“Big Boss’ll never let you go alive without a distraction, honey.” McCree left trails of kisses to the top of Hanzo’s head over strands of inky black hair. His hand toyed with the strands and MCree reflected on just how beautiful Hanzo looked with his hair down. The back of his mind wished he could move his metal arm and comfort the Hanzo currently cradled chest, that the weight of the world wasn’t crushing him into place. “I’ve known for years where I’d end up, just glad I got to meet you first.” 

Hanzo’s wordlessly sat up, pain evident in the knitting of his brows as he stared down at the cowboy. McCree could have sworn he saw the world in that moment, the unforgiving nature of a storm at sea as the maws of two giant dragons swallowed him whole. 

Hanzo looked as though he’d been pierced beneath his scales, a dragon wounded and snarling as it desperately fought to protect its treasure. Hands working their way over McCree’s skin, palms cupping his cheeks over his beard and nose lightly touching the one underneath his own. 

“You must stop speaking, Jesse,” Hanzo pleaded. 

“That man in there,” McCree started as his fingers slowly trailed off the side of Hanzo’s face to point at the gaping hole in the side of the building, “isn’t going to let me leave while my heart’s still beatin’. Han, you have to know this, ya gotta know it’s high time. I’ve always been a lost cause from the day I was born.” 

“I won’t leave you,” Hanzo huffed as the tips of his fingers danced around the metal protruding from McCree’s skin. “You’ve gotten out of worse. You won’t,” Hanzo found he couldn’t get the words to finish leaving his mouth. “I should have been here faster,” he substituted. 

“I’m sorry,” McCree broke. Hanzo cried right into McCree’s bloodied lips. The salt from both their tears mingled in all the wrong ways with the rain. The blame tore at McCree’s insides as he ran fingers through wet hair, breathing ragged and movements harsh. The end came too soon in the form of McCree’s bitter bark of laughter.

Hanzo startled at the sound and McCree hiccuped as he brought Hanzo close enough that his breath ghosted over the other’s lips. 

“I can’t watch you die, Hanzo,” McCree’s words broke in all the wrong places as his smile trembled. 

The weight of the words hung heavy in the air as the implication stunned Hanzo’s movements. Words so softly spoken, the fact they reached Hanzo was an impressive feet in and of itself. Words hanzo wouldn’t allow to act as the finality they were meant to be serve with. 

“I love you, too, Jesse McCree.” Hanzo felt his heart burst.

**Author's Note:**

> Got this prompt from the Right To The Good Parts prompt list that goes around Tumblr sometimes! 
> 
> This is my first OVW written work where I actually managed more than half a page and definitely my favorite pairing at the moment! I'm going to put out more of these that I'm in the middle of real soon. I normally only write one-shots, but I feel this deserves more so I may continue this one in specific if there's an interest. 
> 
> You can find me on twitter @yeehawhd and my ovw tumblr at yeehawhd - come hit me up!
> 
> Also, I would love some feedback on this since it's my first, so just let me know what you think!


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